


dream a little dream of me

by swisstae



Series: Cap-IM Bingo 2020 [3]
Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Half of It (2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Half of It (2020) Fusion, Artist Steve Rogers, Drabble, Fluff and Angst, I Don't Even Know, Light Angst, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sad with a Happy Ending, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve is an awesome painter let me just say this real quick, also this is a weird little thing sorry, its just a lot of fancy words joined together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:33:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24163672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swisstae/pseuds/swisstae
Summary: There had been an art teacher who told him once: The difference between a good painting and a great painting is typically five strokes. Those strokes are usually the boldest strokes in the painting.If you never do the bold stroke, you'll never know if you could have had a truly great painting.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Cap-IM Bingo 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646299
Comments: 22
Kudos: 49
Collections: Captain America/Iron Man Bingo, POTS (18+) Smol Steve Appreciation Bingo





	dream a little dream of me

**Author's Note:**

> This fills square T2 for the Cap-IM bingo (Writing format: Drabble) and square N5 for the Smol Steve Appreciation Server bingo (Artist Steve) 
> 
> thank you to BladeoftheNebula and the lovely Mairi for cheer-reading this little thing and giving me the best advice! 
> 
> (also sorry, but a lot of the ideas are inspired from the movie The Half of It on Netflix. it's awesome, go watch it thanks.)

His brush moves across the canvas fluidly, marking the once smooth surface with color and poignance and meaning. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t lift the brush, doesn’t move back and see what he’s painting- because he wants to see where inspiration will lead him. 

He uses colors that blend and fit and feel so absolutely right together- the deep red of a rose, the coral edges of a sunset, the luminescence of the bright yellow sun. It is a union of harmonious notes, an unspoken beauty. 

But he uses discordant colors too, grass green and pitch black and the purple of the moors. It’s not the perfect blend, no- it is messy and horrible and ugly. It doesn’t fit, it _cannot_ fit. A perfect metaphor; great minds think alike, birds of a feather flock together, solace in harmony. He cannot deny it, no, not when all evidence points to the contrary. But- but. 

It is messy, and horrible, and ugly- and _bold._

There had been an art teacher who told him once: The difference between a good painting and a great painting is typically five strokes. Those strokes are usually the boldest strokes in the painting.

He dips his brush back into the pot, hesitating for a second as he watches the way the painting is taking shape. It’s beautiful, he thinks to himself. But everything beautiful, everything picture perfect and harmonious and wonderful is ruined eventually. _C’est la vie._

If you never do the bold stroke, you'll never know if you could have had a truly great painting.

** 

Love, to Steve, is the _can’t eat, can’t sleep, over the fence, beyond the stars_ kind of feeling. Love is the name of the desire and the pursuit to be whole, and finding your other half is the most beautiful moment of your life. 

He wants it, a visceral sort of longing for something he’s never had. A longing to understand it, to experience it, to know what everyone talks about day and night, to know why everyone fears the absence of this abstract concept. 

It’s addictive, they say. Once you’ve tasted it, you can never go back. You will spend your whole life in pursuit of that same feeling, in pursuit of something that cannot be found by searching for it. 

What does Steve do? 

Steve paints. 

** 

He paints himself sometimes: fantasies, of what he’d like to be. Strong, tall, nowhere near dependent on others. 

It’s a pipe dream, he knows. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s perfect and stellar and utterly, utterly foolish- but he dreams. He’s allowed to dream. 

(And sometimes he paints himself as who he is: a skinny, asthmatic boy who dares to dream. Who dares to stand up for himself, who dares to love. It’s unharmonious and messy and imperfect, but it _is_ bold.) 

** 

He meets someone. It’s not love, no. 

It’s not exactly hate either, because hate is too strong a word for anything in this world. But it is definitely not love. 

Not when he rubs Steve up the wrong way, not when the glint in his eyes is cruel and his voice edged with bitterness and sarcasm. 

** 

It’s the sharp edge of a jaw, the cheeky light in warm brown eyes, the soft edge of a smile hidden away in the depths of a goatee. 

It’s not Tony, it can’t be Tony. 

Not when Tony has only sneered at Steve’s advances to becoming friends. Not when he hates Steve, not when he loathes everything Steve stands for: his morals, his steadfast views, his stubbornness. 

(Steve is weak and small and skinny, but he is not a pushover. He will not love a man who hates him.)

He paints and paint and paints until that image of Tony is gone from his head. A wishful dream, a hopeless fantasy. 

** 

Love is unpredictable. It changes how you think, how you feel, how you understand. 

It changes you. 

It gives you perspective. Steve thinks he understands it now. Understands Tony, how he works. 

It’s not love, no, but it might be. 

** 

They change. Like every living creature on this vast, depthless planet, they change. 

They grow together, they understand each other. They’re not as different as they’d once thought, no. They’re good together, better even.

Steve’s paintings take on a different view: instead of discordant colors clashing on his canvas, they create a blend. They’re not as perfect as the colors that should be used together; but where’s the fun in that? 

** 

It’s the deep red of roses, the clear blue of the sky on a sunny day, and the pale yellow of silken sunshine. 

It jumps out, stands out, clashes with every aspect- and yet, it doesn’t. With time, everything begins to fall into place. So do they. 

Steve feels arms come up from behind him, hugging him, both of them staring at the painting Steve’s just finished. It’s wild and uncoordinated, and Steve’s never been prouder. 

Tony presses a kiss to his temple as they stand there together. It’s not perfect, but it damn near is. 

**

Love. 

Steve thought he understood love. He thought he knew what love is, how it makes you feel, how it defines you as a person. But love isn’t patient and kind and humble or perfect.

Love is the erratic, irregular beat of your heart; it is the smooth slide of warm lips against your own, it is soft smiles and softer eyes; it is the knowledge that it’s not finding your perfect half - it’s the trying and reaching and failing. Failing to be perfect. 

Steve and Tony are on the opposite ends of the spectrum. They are messy, and horrible, and ugly together- and yet, they are bold. 

Love is being willing to ruin your good painting for the chance at a great one. _And this,_ Steve thinks to himself one morning, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of Tony’s sleeping form, _this is the great painting I’ve been wanting to make my whole life._


End file.
